There Is A Light
by elysedd
Summary: "Sherlock doesn't know what possessed him to accept Molly Hooper's invitation when she'd approached or rather, cornered him by his locker earlier that day. Well, he does know, he thinks bitterly, and he blames John Watson entirely." Teenage Sherlock ends up at a party and John offers him a lift home. Based on The Smiths' song 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out'.


**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC, Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat. Not me. Unfortunately._

**There Is A Light **

Parties, Sherlock decides, are definitely not his thing.

He doesn't know what possessed him to accept Molly Hooper's invitation when she'd approached (or rather, cornered) him by his locker earlier that day. Well, he does know, he thinks bitterly, and he blames John Watson entirely.

* * *

"Sherlock," Molly had begun coyly, hugging her folder to her chest.

Sherlock stiffened. He was far, far from stupid, and Molly was not especially subtle when it came to her … _affections_, nor was she difficult to read. Not that anyone one was difficult to read, certainly not for Sherlock.

"I don't suppose you're, uh, doing anything tonight?" She giggled nervously, fiddling with the ends of her hair in an irritating manner.

Oh for the love of God, not again. Since the beginning of the school year, Sherlock had found himself invited for coffee more times than he cared to count. Each time, he had declined, his refusals becoming more and more terse as time went on.

Molly, it seemed, was not deterred by rejection.

"As it happens, I am," he said brusquely.

Molly's smile faltered, her face falling fractionally.

"Oh, it's just … nothing important really, I was only wondering … if you wanted to come along to my house for a party tonight, that's all, see you later," she rushed, her words tripping over each other in her eagerness to get away. She turned and hurried down the corridor to her next lesson, head bent, still clutching her folder.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he slammed his locker shut. A party. Why on earth would he, Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath, go to a party? He scoffed at the thought. Sherlock swung his bag onto his shoulder, ready to head to an empty room in the science labs where he could be left in peace.

It was at that moment John Watson had collided with his rucksack.

Sherlock slammed into his locker, his shoulder crashing painfully into the metal door.

"Oh bloody hell, sorry mate," John apologised, looking at Sherlock with concerned eyes.

Sherlock's expression froze, his features locked into place. He felt his skin gradually begin to warm.

"Are you okay?" John asked uncertainly.

The earlier image of Molly Hooper blushing furiously infected his brain. Sherlock realised how similar he must look to her at that moment.

"Fine, yes. Watch where you're walking in the future," he retorted haughtily, turning on his heel and stalking down the corridor.

It wasn't that he liked John Watson, hell, Sherlock Holmes didn't like anybody, but he couldn't pretend that he wasn't fascinated by him. God knows John wasn't the most interesting person Sherlock had ever observed – as far as Sherlock could tell, he had no hidden secrets, no skeletons in the closet – and that was exactly what had caught his eye. John was older than him by two years and Sherlock had often found himself lurking by sixth form classrooms, nowhere near where he should be, just because he knew John would pass by.

He could tell everything about an individual in a single look, and so far, in five whole years in this mundane school, the most incriminating fact he could deduce about John Watson was that he was almost suspiciously faultless. It was incredibly frustrating.

He had a friendly smile that he bestowed on everybody (including freaks like Sherlock who were almost universally ignored) that Sherlock had deduced was completely genuine. He had kind eyes and time for everybody, an easy laugh and amiable nature.

John Watson was perfectly, almost sickeningly, _good._ It made Sherlock feel faintly ill.

Ordinary, stupid people would describe Sherlock's … interest as a _crush_. Sherlock scowled at the word, disgusted. He was a sociopath, not a swooning maiden in a romance novel. His fascination in John was just that – a fascination. Besides, he was a scientist. He conducted experiments and observed the data, basing his judgements on the facts.

And then the idea came to him – what he needed, what he really needed, was to carry out such an experiment on John Watson.

Naturally, John would be invited to Molly's 'party'. His easy-going nature meant he was popular with boys and girls alike - in fact, Sherlock thought it odd that he wasn't involved in a relationship already – and John, as a sociable person, would accept.

Perhaps Sherlock would be busy that night. He'd been desperate to collect data about John Watson for years, and there was no time like the present after all. This would be the perfect opportunity for Sherlock to satisfy his curiosity and deduce John's hidden faults or guilty secrets. Surely nobody could be as seemingly kind and honest as he appeared to be.

_Just an experiment_, Sherlock reminded himself sternly. _Nothing more_. Despite this, he'd found himself willing the school day to end quickly more often than usual.

* * *

So that's how Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, ends up at his first party. He stands rigidly, with his arms folded, in a room full of imbeciles gossiping, guffawing and drinking from plastic cups, whilst Molly enthusiastically prattles on at him. He'd given up pretending to listen at what felt like a decade ago.

Molly had practically ambushed him the moment he'd walked through the door and had been holding him hostage ever since, meaning Sherlock hasn't even seen, let alone spoken to John.

_Idiot_, he scoffs at his own stupidity. _So much for 'observational data'._ He'd been just as stupid as the rest of the morons here to ever consider that this had been a good idea.

"I have to go," he snaps at Molly.

She laughs, seemingly unfazed by the obvious irritation in his voice. "Oh, come on! Stay for a drink at least," she says teasingly, her hand reaching out to make contact with his forearm.

Maybe it's the teasing or her touching him that he can't stand, but Sherlock's fragile patience gives and finally shatters.

"I said I've got to go, didn't you hear? And in case you hadn't already caught on, which you really should have by now by the sheer number of times I have told you: I am not. Interested," he shoots venomously. The room that had previously been filled with the racket of loud voices and noisy music is uncomfortably silent as everybody stares.

Sherlock did not know what reaction he had expected from Molly, a punch in the jaw perhaps, but she lowers her gaze and her cheeks turn a blotchy red.

"Why do you have to say such cruel things all the time," she mumbles and turns away, hurrying out of the room with a stifled sob.

As she flees, Sherlock feels the gaze of twenty pairs of eyes upon him.

"Arguing with your girlfriend are you, Freak?" Anderson calls mockingly from the other side of the room, over the heads of the group surrounding him, who reward his remark with sniggering. Sally Donovan cackles particularly loudly.

Sherlock curses and stalks out, shoving past herds of chattering teenagers and couples who are becoming all too friendly with each other, until he is finally standing on the pavement outside.

It's raining, and the freezing cold is a welcome relief from the stuffiness indoors. Sherlock stands with his eyes shut, seething with anger, letting the icy evening breeze ease his frustration with Molly, the rest of the fools, and most of all, himself.

"You want a lift?" says a familiar voice from behind him.

Sherlock's eyes fly open. He turns to see John Watson shivering in his jacket with a friendly smile on his face. He hasn't seen John since their awkward encounter earlier, and Sherlock's determined not to act like _that_ again.

"I am perfectly capable of walking," he replies stiffly.

John raises his eyebrows. "That's true. But I'm not sure you'll enjoy walking in the rain. And my car's just over there." He gestures down the street.

"Rain will not kill me." Sherlock gives John a withering look, which would be much more effective if the rain hadn't chosen this moment to go from light shower to veritable downpour.

John wrinkles his nose and pulls his jacket further around himself in an attempt to stay warm and dry. "Hypothermia might."

"For God's sake, I will not develop hypothermia from walking in the rain."

"It is cold, and raining, and dark, and you don't have a jacket. Get in," John counters, approaching his car and opening the door. He drops into the driver's seat and turns the key in the ignition.

"My core body temperature would have to be less than thirty five degrees for me to be classed as hypothermic, which I can assure you it is not, and even then that's just a mild case, nothing _serious_," Sherlock argues. "Besides, I don't feel the cold."

John winds down the passenger window and leans towards Sherlock, who is stubbornly freezing to death outside.

"Sherlock – get in the bloody car."

The flat tone of his voice leaves no room for objection and even Sherlock has to admit that it's uncomfortably cold outside. He gets into the passenger seat with a huff, trying to conserve as much dignity as possible for someone whose hair is dripping puddles onto their lap.

They drive mainly in silence except for the hum of the radio and John occasionally asking Sherlock for directions. It is a comfortable kind of quiet, and Sherlock likes that John isn't one of those people who feel the need to fill every pause with inane chatter.

"Did you have a good night then?"

"No," Sherlock answers shortly. He does not want John to know about the whole exchange with Molly, and John, sensing that Sherlock doesn't want to talk about it, abandons the subject.

"Right. Did your friends have a good night?" he asks instead.

Sherlock snorts derisively. "Don't be stupid, John. I don't have _friends_."

John doesn't question him on that, but Sherlock can detect his confusion.

"I don't like people my own age. Or of any age, really. They call me a freak, amongst other things. Not that I care," he continues. "I wouldn't want to suffer their company."

"That's … that's horrible, Sherlock," John sounds genuinely upset for him. "I don't understand why they'd say things like that." Sherlock sees the pity in his eyes, which ignites his temper. He does not want John Watson to pity him.

So he scoffs. "Of course they'd say that. I _am_ a freak." Before John can protest against this, Sherlock spins round in the passenger seat and stares fixedly at John.

"Dark circles under your eyes indicate frequent sleepless nights, could be down to insomnia but considering they are fairly recent, it's more likely down to stress. It's the last year of your A levels – of course you're stressed, but you're more worried about these exams than your peers. Subjects you're studying obviously infer a career in medicine, caring person, so doctor is more likely than a consulting role. A doctor and not a consultant … hands on person, likes the thrill of action. So, you need good grades for that career, but you're not happy with good grades, you need excellent grades. That, plus the fact you don't appear as if you could afford to pay for a university education, implies that you're going for a scholarship … and you've put on a lot more muscle recently, from the way you stand and walk. Doctor, thrives off adrenaline, scholarship, increase in fitness – easy," Sherlock spits out at top-speed, barely pausing for breath. "Applying for an army scholarship to get you through university, ambitions to become an army doctor."

John's jaw drops open, his mouth forming an astonished 'o'. He looks so comical that if Sherlock weren't feeling so awful right now, he'd smirk at his dumbfounded expression.

_That,_ Sherlock thinks bitterly, _is why they are right when they say I'm a freak, and now you know that about me, you'll say it too and you'll stop on the side of the road and demand I get out of your car in case freakishness is contagious and it's why you'll ignore me and pretend you don't know me and won't smile at me in the corridors anymore, and -_

John does none of these things. Instead, his expression of shocked disbelief gradually lifts into an impressed grin. "That," he declares, "was bloody brilliant."

Sherlock, for the first time in his sixteen years, is surprised. 'Brilliant' isn't a word generally associated with Sherlock Holmes. 'Abnormal' and 'inhuman' tend to be favourites of Sally Donovan and her friends.

John Watson doesn't think Sherlock is a freak. John Watson called him brilliant. He'd just complimented him. Sherlock feels a warm glow that begins somewhere in chest start to spread around his body.

"Thank you," he mumbles, so quietly that John isn't sure if he imagined it until he gives Sherlock a warm smile, which he tentatively returns.

Sherlock, as a rule, does not like to be wrong, but on this occasion he is secretly happy to be mistaken. Perhaps John Watson really is as good a person as he first appeared to be. Sherlock is dying to observe him more carefully. He wants to put John under a microscope, and examine what it is about him that makes his reactions to Sherlock so different to other people's.

_Maybe it's a mental defect, _Sherlock thinks. That's the only possible reason John can react so casually to his deductions that normal, sane people find unsettling. Sherlock stares wonderingly out of the window as the city passes by.

He turns his gaze from outside when a soft crooning voice suddenly fills the car. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John when he reaches out to turn up the volume dial.

_Take me out, tonight,_

_Where there's music and there's people and they're young and alive._

"Really, John?"

"There is nothing wrong with a bit of Morrissey," John replies defensively. "Anyway, it's my car."

He turns the volume up again. The name means nothing to Sherlock, and he's sure John plays the song louder just to bug him. He scowls.

"Please, please tell me you've heard of The Smiths?" At Sherlock's blank look, John shakes his head in disbelief. "This song is a classic, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sniffs. "I don't like _songs_, I like music. Lyrics are irritating."

_Driving in your car, I never, never want to go home,_

_Because I haven't got one anymore._

"Okay," John says. "So what music do you like then?"

"Bach." Sherlock considers this question for a moment. "Anything I can play on my violin."

"You play the violin?"

"Obviously." Sherlock can't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice and John rolls his eyes at his tone.

"Yes alright, thanks for that. How long have you been playing?"

Sherlock thinks. "Since I was three."

_Take me out tonight, _

_Because I want to see people and I want to see life._

"Child genius too then," John mutters. "Right. Did your parents teach you?"

"My parents are dead," Sherlock answers shortly, which is not strictly true, but they might as well be for all the care they give him. This doesn't bother him, of course. Sherlock is more than capable of looking after himself.

"Oh Sherlock, I'm sorry," he apologises guiltily. "Well, I'd love to be as musically gifted as you. If you gave me a violin I wouldn't know what to do with it."

Sherlock studies him carefully. "But you took lessons in primary school when you were younger. Woodwind," he announces, satisfied, and leans back in his seat.

"How did you even- Yes. Clarinet, when I was eight. I was absolutely useless. My teacher had to break the news to my parents that I'd never be musically talented if I couldn't tell which way up the music went," John grins at Sherlock, who gives a low chuckle.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't generally like talking either. He likes to mutter to himself in long-winded monologues, but he's never enjoyed the back-and-forth of a conversation before. For some unknown reason, he likes talking to John, which is odd because he isn't exceptionally intelligent, and Sherlock doesn't normally bother with those with an intellect lesser than his, which is most people.

_Driving in your car, oh, please don't drop me home,_

_Because it's not my home, it's their home and I'm welcome no more,_

Sherlock wishes that his house were much, much further away than it is. He doesn't ever want to leave the car. He'd happily spend the rest of his life in here if it meant that John would stay with him. He tries desperately to say something, anything, to make the most of this moment, but his brilliant mind can't come up with a single word to say. Unbelievably, Sherlock Holmes is speechless.

_Take me out tonight,_

_Take me anywhere, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care,_

Sherlock glances at John out of the corner of his eye and carefully studies his features as they fall in and out of shadows in the glow of passing streetlights. He notices John's determined brow, his kind eyes and his sandy hair. Sherlock feels his fingers twitch and has a sudden urge to run them through it. He sits on his hands and turns his head away to face the window.

_And in the darkened underpass I thought, oh God, my chance has come at last,_

_But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask._

After several cycles of observing then ignoring John, Sherlock begins to notice that John is also watching him. As Sherlock looks blankly out of the passenger window, he can see John's reflection in the darkness staring at the back of his head. Sherlock turns towards John, who is now fixedly looking straight out the windscreen.

_Driving in your car, I never, never want to go home,_

_Because I haven't got one, anymore._

The car gradually stutters to a halt when it arrives outside 221B Baker Street. Sherlock makes no effort to leave, and John doesn't ask him to. The two of them sit silently, watching, waiting for the other to talk. Neither wants to be the first to speak, knowing that would inevitably bring the night to an end. John opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it, and Sherlock notices the indecision in his expression. Simultaneously, they draw closer together.

When their lips meet, Sherlock isn't entirely sure who is kissing who. It's all soft mouths and warm breath and John and it's _perfect_. Sherlock carefully lifts an arm and places his hand at the nape of John's neck, fingers twisting in his fine hair, and John wraps his arms around Sherlock's narrow back in response, pulling him as close as possible in the cramped car.

_And if a double decker bus crashes into us,_

_To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die,_

The song continues to play, a soundtrack to their ragged breathing and the rustle of clothing. John's warm hands drift under Sherlock's shirt and trace patterns on his back, and Sherlock can't stand to be touched, but with John it's somehow right. Sherlock deepens the kiss, exploring John's mouth with his tongue, and when his teeth bite down on John's lower lip, he gives a low moan.

They eventually part, and they breathe in unison, eyes closed, foreheads touching. John pulls back slightly, his arms still wound around Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John whispers, looking into his eyes intently. Sherlock's heart swells at the sound of his name on John's lips. His voice is full with emotion and something, Sherlock's dazed brain informs him, that sounds a lot like love.

_And if a ten tonne truck kills the both of us,_

_To die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine._

He can't help but agreeing with the crooning voice. To die by John Watson's side would certainly not be a bad way to go.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So that was my very first attempt at writing fanfiction (which is probably glaringly obvious) and it's un-beta'd so all mistakes are completely my fault and I'm very sorry. I really enjoyed writing this fic, the idea's been hanging around in my mind for ages - for some reason, The Smiths' songs really remind me of Sherlock/John. Anyway, thank you very much for reading!


End file.
